


Leave a message after the tone

by Wrathofscribbles



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-29
Updated: 2020-01-29
Packaged: 2021-02-25 04:41:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22470370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Wrathofscribbles/pseuds/Wrathofscribbles
Summary: He never deleted the voicemails when he received them.  Maybe he knew not to, even back then.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 12
Kudos: 68





	Leave a message after the tone

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MysteriousBean](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MysteriousBean/gifts), [MathClassWarfare](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MathClassWarfare/gifts), [IRMA_VEP](https://archiveofourown.org/users/IRMA_VEP/gifts).



> **Big bold reminder that I don't own FFXV or any of its content and characters.** It's the property of Square Enix, and I still cry over Noct's fate.
> 
> Behold a tiny foray into WoR

He never deleted the voilcemails when he received them. Maybe he knew not to, even back then. Maybe he knew something like this would happen. Or, well, not like _this_ (who could ever predict being backstabbed by the Astrals supposedly charged with protecting humanity?) but... something splitting them up because commoners weren't supposed to date royalty, feelings be damned.

He has every picture saved, too. The ones on his phone, on his camera, on the memory drives. Each and every selfie attached to Noct's texts, as well.

The photos... he looks at them daily. Just to remind himself of the little details. The mole near Noct's mouth. The scar at his hairline, easily hidden with some styling. The flap of his hand over his eyes in bright morning sunshine, face screwed up in sleepy protest. The lopsided smile, toothpaste a foamy trail down his chin and brush jammed between his teeth, reflection in the mirror tired but eyes alight with mischief and Prompto remembers that morning. Remembers tumbling backward when Noct chucked his toothbrush at him and used him as _target practice for a warp_. He trails his fingers over Noct's arms, his hands, misses the curl of fingers between his and the warmth of Noct's cuddles. He misses the way he'd _snuffle_ when nosing at his hair, content in the moment and free in his affections.

He zooms in on the marks his cameras can't quite get right, the scars blended so well into his flesh, the map of them, the stories behind them. If he closes his eyes he can remember the texture of them under his fingertips. Some rough, some smooth, some the silvery-white of a past long gone and others pink or red, fresh and still aching with the tender remembrance flesh has for wounds healed too quickly with magic.

The voicemails... he saves those for the bad days-turned-endless-nights. When the horror seems endless and he's seen another family ripped apart by daemons, when he's been fast but not fast _enough_ in leading others to safety, when there's so much blood on his hands he drowns in it in his nightmares. When he looks up at the cruel sky and questions why he keeps fighting. They're his lifeline, a connection to a heart aching so bad it's almost dead in his chest. They're not recorded phone calls, there's not a half hour of Noct's voice saved away for recall at any time. Just a handful of seconds each, the soft hush of Noct's voice for his ears alone, reminders played one after another after another. They're his reason to keep going when it seems so goddamn impossible. One day... _one day_ he'll hear Noctis again, for real, in the flesh, and be able to take his hand or hold him close or burrow under the blankets with him, kiss him, love him, never let him go again. He just has to hold on until then. He just has to keep fighting.

But even then, doubts spin in his mind. They're against such impossible odds. Wildlife perishes under the claws of daemons, tortured and tormented and thrown into their poisoned ranks. Plants die and can't be replaced, no sunlight around to revive them, food grows scarce, people kill each other in their desparation for supplies. How is humanity supposed to come back from this? How is the _world_ supposed to recover from this? Is it even remotely possible? So he calls Noctis when those nagging thoughts snap at his heels. There's never an answer, of course, but he calls all the same. Leaves his own voicemails. Talks as long as the service will let him, passing on messages and observations and insights about how they're coping, how they're not. He always ends on a plea, the same one. _Please come home, Noct._ He hopes Noctis gets them, wherever he is. He hopes they provide him some comfort.

He's tempted to send texts, or emails, but there's never enough time for those. Especially not when the Havens run dry of magic and suddenly there's no safe place from daemons beyond Lestallum and everyone crowds within the city limits like tinned sardines. It's easier to talk, when he's running. It's easier to talk through an earpiece so both hands are free for shooting, or for hauling a kid up into his arms as he sprints for the truck with daemons in hot pursuit. Every life counts, after all, and Noctis would surely have his head if he wasted time typing shit out when he had better use for his hands.

_Please come home, Noct._

_I miss you._

_I love you._

* * *

_I love you._

Three simple words and oh, how they make his heart ache even as it sings. He never thought he'd hear them again, not from Noctis.

But they're whispered every morning, with every kiss Noctis leaves on his lips, his cheeks, his forehead, his nose, buries in his hair and tucks into his throat until he laughs and swats at him and squirms around in bed.

They're a truth uttered with every sunrise. They're a truth he returns, and he never wants it to end. Never again.


End file.
